


Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat

by middlemarch



Category: Mercy Street (TV)
Genre: American Civil War, Anger, Biblical References, F/M, Gen, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-10
Updated: 2016-09-10
Packaged: 2018-08-14 07:09:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8003179
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/middlemarch/pseuds/middlemarch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>One good day was all she asked.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dare you see a Soul at the White Heat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [ultrahotpink](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ultrahotpink/gifts).



“All I wanted was one good day! God damn it, is it so much to ask for?” Mary was nearly shouting and the floor in front of her where the Turkey carpet’s fringe lay flat on the oak planks was covered in glass shards and fragments, the water already soaked into the worn wool of the run. 

Jed had been trying to help her as she cleared the table where the officers ate dinner but he has miscalculated or she had moved more slowly than he expected—in any case, his hand had knocked a tumbler half-full of water off the overburdened tray and it seemed the moment of the glass falling, too fast to catch, too slow not to wonder at its arc and invincible gravity, had been the moment that broke Mary’s patience. She’d made a shrill sound and stamped her booted foot twice, rattling the rest of the crockery on the tray and had been so overcome that she’d barely noticed when he took the tray from her hands. Her anger and frustration were astonishingly articulate and incautious; he could tell she was not considering what she said as she usually would, measured, compassionate Mary disappeared. Decorum had been dashed with the cup and he couldn’t say he was unhappy about it. He wasn’t glad she was furious but it was a relief to see that she could become so, that there were times she couldn’t manage her passionate nature, that it was not Jedediah Foster alone who was incapable of keeping his temper in this hospital full of good people doing good work. In her right mind, Mary would have been sure to correct him, remind him of all the myriad times the other staff had been overwhelmed, ill-advised, intemperate, the full basins Hastings had overturned, the precious plate of eggs Hale had dumped all over a surly private from Maine, the lamp McBurney had shattered when the boy he’d operated on for five hours died as he’d closed the last incision and how he’d refused to come out of the darkening room until Mother Mary Agnes sat with him for a while in silence. But the Mary who stood in front of Jed right now was not the woman he knew, not at all.

“Anne Hastings will be the death of me and how she will rejoice at my funeral! I expect she’d like to ride bareback on the first horse in the funeral process, a great black ostrich plume in her hair, bellowing ‘Good riddance, Phinney and good luck in Hell!’ Alice Green nearly ripped out all of Corporal Quincy’s stitches with her blasted hoopskirt and Dr. Hale is far more abstemious about administering morphine to a dying boy than he is shoveling in his third helping of mutton stew—poor Talbot would have wept if he could have managed it, thank God Samuel Diggs saw and found a reason to call Dr. Hale away so I could give the poor boy another dose,” she said, finally regaining something like her regular tone, though Jed still heard the fatigue of a day that had begun before dawn and promised to last another few hours. He set the tray down on the table and stepped a little closer to her, saw she was trembling and that her eyes were bright with tears.

“Did anything else trouble you, Mary?” he asked. She sighed and the hectic color in her cheeks was less pronounced with her exhalation. And perhaps because he had simply asked? She smoothed her skirts with her hands, then clasped them before her; they were very white against her grey skirt, even against her drab apron.

“Haven’t I said enough? I should beg your pardon for my unladylike display, I do,” she replied, lowering her eyes. Christ, she was lovely and so very dear! He thought of how he behaved when he was ill, how he behaved on a regular basis and how much it had taken to make her stand before him, profane and exhausted and hurt somehow he couldn’t quite grasp.

“You never need beg pardon from me, Mary. And it’s not enough until you’ve said everything you want. You can’t think you offend me,” he said mildly. He was watching her and saw when she glanced at him then, how the light had altered in her eyes. She let her hands fall to her sides.

“Well, I couldn’t find my handkerchief all day and the soda was short so the biscuit wouldn’t rise. And it is my mother’s birthday, usually I would visit with my sister but I haven’t had a letter from her in over a month and I can’t see why,” she said and he thought it had been a long, difficult day in a long, difficult week and the reason why he himself was not railing vociferously against God and the universe tonight was right before him. He fished the handkerchief from his vest pocket, the lawn square unadorned save for an entwined J and F in navy silk and put it in Mary’s open hand.

“Take this then,” he offered and before she could give voice to the demurral her pursed lips were shaping, he took her face in his hands and kissed her, lightly but deliberately, first on her sweet mouth like a solemn promise and then on her forehead, a blessing. “I’ll take care of the rest of this here. The day is done—I wish you a good night, Mary,” he said, stroking a sure finger across her cheek as he stepped back, enjoying how finely she was made, looking at her dark eyes, seeing her surprise, her confusion, her unconcealed pleasure. Her eyes were very wide and he envisioned Eve in the garden, Rebecca at the well, Esther a queen in a silvery veil.

“Off to bed, now. It’s Psalm 30, isn’t it, ‘joy cometh in the morning?’” he said, smiling at her, wanting her to know he understood and that he thought no less of her. Indeed, he could only think more, especially after the brilliance of that tirade, the image of Anne Hastings upon the black stallion priceless, vividly hilarious and absurdly apt. 

“Good night, Jedediah. And…thank you, ” she said, subdued but consoled, the hint of her usual fond smile returned, the fire in her banked now. He saw that she tucked his handkerchief into her apron pocket carefully and did not offer to return it.

**Author's Note:**

> This was a prompt response to ultrahotpink, a wonderful friend, reader, commenter and member of the Mercy Street fandom. The title is from Emily Dickinson. I was striving to achieve a nice balance of angry!Mary and Jed being supportive, within reason. And to keep it short-- though I failed at staying around 500 words.


End file.
